


Actually, Jim...

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pretending to Be Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-09
Updated: 2010-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's brilliant plan works, but it also has... consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Actually, Jim...

**Author's Note:**

> Because I felt like writing some clichés, here is "pretending to be gay". Contains unchallenged top/bottom stereotypes. Beta'd by [](http://klashfor.livejournal.com/profile)[klashfor](http://klashfor.livejournal.com/).

The Pinzucaretti like Bones. They REALLY like Bones. They want him to marry their princess, in fact. And staying here as the future queen's consort really wouldn't be all that compatible with being the ship's surgeon of the _USS Enterprise_ , now, would it? It's not the sort of work you can phone in.  So, really, what choice does Jim have for a tactful escape from this potential debacle than to throw his arm around his buddy's waist and start implying they’re both gay as blazes?  Which, in the local cultural tradition, means he needs to touch Bones a lot and talk about how they were Such Great Friends ever since the day they met. And then invent salacious details about the sex life they’re not having.

“You little shit,” Bones murmurs in his ear, while the discussion between the Pinzucaretti ambassador and Jim has been paused by the intercession of Pinzucaretti aides (aides wear the green robes, that’s how Jim remembers; the security guys are in blue, the ambassador’s in silver, the politicians are in orange, royalty in black, visitors like Jim in yellow, everyone else in white) wanting to discuss the precise translation of the Standard phrase “needy, greedy bottom” when applied to a man whose ass the speaker is squeezing through the smooth, thin silk of the traditional robes. “I’m gonna get you for this.”

Jim smiles sweetly. Bones’ll thank him in the end. Half an hour’s embarrassment and then they’ll both be free to go without any inconvenient marriages to Princess Almaretzedia who, although scorching fucking hot, man (nipples like ripe strawberries perfectly visible through the black gauze of her robes, and glossy glossy ringlets of pink hair falling to her teeny tiny waist)… well, she _has_ eaten twelve previous husbands already. And the _Enterprise_ does need her CMO. So it’s a community service, really, for Jim to kiss Bones’s stubbled cheek and cling to him like a seriously sexy limpet and make it pretty damn hard to miss the _we’re queer and we’re lovers, deal with it_ vibe he’s vibing out for all he’s worth.

Even Spock looks as if he might be buying it.

The ambassador returns from his little confab with his minions to agree in ringing tones that, yes, clearly the Beautiful Doctor-Man is a _very_ needy, greedy bottom who no doubt requires a great deal of his loving captain’s loving care.

Jim beams and hints—possibly a bit broadly, to judge by the force of the hip-check that nearly lands him in the buffet—to the gracious ambassador that, yeah, about that, could they please be excused to their room now so that, hint hint, Beautiful Doctor-Man can have some attention? And just like that, they are free of the awkward, unfunny excuse for a party of the type professional diplomats always seem to throw.

Sometimes Jim’s brilliance astounds even Jim.

The suite assigned to the _Enterprise_ landing party is about the size of the deck five crew quarters if you knocked out most of the walls. It’s big enough to get lost in. So if Jim accidentally finds himself in Spock and Uhura’s room instead of his own (all the doors look alike, anyone might be confused), and if he _does_ happen to fall face-first into some delicate black lace underthings someone has left lying around, well, could you possibly blame him?

“Hey, kid,” says Bones, more than half growl, from the lounge area, “I want a word with you.”

“Coming, sweetheart,” Jim sing-songs, and sniggers to himself. He’s a fucking awesome actor when he has to be. Starfleet is fucking lucky to have him. He fights, he writes reports, he thinks his way out of seemingly impossible traps, he discovers weird new galactic shit, he diplomacies his sweet diplomatic derriere off… He’s so far beyond a triple threat he’s lost count. They ought to pay him more, yes, yes.

Bones is scowling when Jim finds his way back out to the lounge. Dude’s got his arms folded, too. Or he has, until Jim comes into range. Then he’s grabbed Jim by the arms and is marching him off somewhere.

Bonesy’s room, it turns out.

Their time-passing board game’s still set up from earlier, but apparently Bones does not want to play. He wants to knock Jim to the fluffy white carpet and pin him down. Which is cool, nice spot of wrestling to stretch the muscles a bit, let off tension. He grins, bucks up, rolls them over. Bones bites him. Not normally part of the plan, but, hey, Jim’s adaptable. He runs a hand down his buddy’s side, looking for ticklish spots, because fair’s fair, right? Or should that be unfair’s unfair? Whatever.

Bones goes very still. Then he rolls them, all business, and actually manages to catch Jim’s wrists and hold them flat to the floor up above Jim’s head. Dude’s surprisingly strong when he’s determined. Jim's not sure he can unseat him now without risking injury to one or both of them and a lecture from the Beautiful Doctor-Man himself. He stares up at Bones, who’s actually looking a bit—angry?

About before, downstairs?

“Hey, man, you know I didn’t mean—I was just pretending, you know, to extract us from a sticky situation with a minimum of, you know, Intergalactic Incidents and shit. We’re cool, right?”

Bonesy’s expression hardens further.

 _Okay._ So perhaps it wasn’t wrestling. Perhaps this was a fight and he didn’t even notice. _Huh._ This could be just slightly problematical.

“I understand that perfectly, Jim,” Bones says, voice deceptively calm, gaze hot, dangerous. “You were just _pretending_.”

Something very strange is going on here, Jim thinks, struggling half-heartedly because, you know, that’s what you do when someone’s pinning you down, even if you don’t really want or need to escape right now, it’s just good form.

The Bones Brow climbs gradually up his forehead like some sort of warning flag up a sailing ship’s mast.

Which is about when Jim notices the hard-on. He frowns. Bones is enjoying this? Bones is—? What?

Bones smells like the champagne-and-local-mushroom cocktails they were drinking at dinner, and his dick is a distinct, warm pressure against Jim’s groin.

“Um, Bones? Anything you want to tell me?”

Bones takes a deep breath, huffs it out in a long-suffering sigh. Wets his lips. “You’re an idiot.”

Like he hasn’t heard _that_ before. “Okay. Anything else?”

“Yeah, you’re a fucking tease, you know that?” Another sigh. “I fuck men, Jim. I’m good at it. I like it. They like it. No pretence necessary. I can extract myself from my own unwanted marriages, thanks kindly.” He shifts just slightly, as if he’s thinking about getting off Jim, or thinking about doing something else entirely. “And I’ll have you know, Jim Kirk, that if we fucked I would top you so well you’d be begging for a goddamn repeat performance.”

It’s like one of those old cartoons where a character’s hit with something and the concussion’s represented by a lot of lines going round and round his or her head. Only it’s sound, not an anvil, that hit Jim, and it’s words, not lines, going round and round his head. And he’s you know, not, to the very best of his knowledge, a cartoon character (though if he has to be, can he please be Jessica Rabbit? Because she’s both hot and awesome. Just sayin’.). For a moment, it’s all so unreal he’s half convinced that he’s dreaming.

And then Bones leans down and kisses him, full on the mouth, and it’s fucking confusing how much that doesn’t fucking suck. Several facts converge on Jim simultaneously in a mad mob scene of brain-killing wonder:

Bones is a great kisser.

Bones tastes good.

He is kissing Bones back.

This is not awful.

He is quite, quite sure the universe made more sense than this when he got up this morning.

Bones is wearing a decidedly smug smirk when he finally gets off Jim.

“The bed is there. The door is there. Take your pick.”

Jim swallows hard, looks from the bed to Bones to the bed again. He expects to hear mocking laughter following him all the way back to his own room, but there’s only silence. He throws himself on the chaise-thing by the huge tinted windows and gears up for a good sulk. Because Bones likes men, and this is news And Jim… Jim isn’t as indifferent to male bodies and the sexual possibilities they afford as he’d thought. So, um, thanks, Pinzucaretti people. Thanks for that. Now he has to do a whole bunch of soul-searching and introspection, and he _hates_ that shit.

But at least he didn’t lose Bones to a spouse-eating hella hot alien princess, right?

***END***


End file.
